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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28834920">You're Gonna Be The Death Of Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative'>Val_Creative</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tenet (2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Explicit Language, Fake Marriage, Hiding in Plain Sight, Hotel Sex, Hotels, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, One Night Stands, Pining, Public Display of Affection, Romance, Rough Kissing, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Undercover as a Couple, Watching Someone Sleep</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:28:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,448</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28834920</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>While still traveling by themselves in Mumbai, Neil and The Protagonist lay low.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Bulletproof 20/21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You're Gonna Be The Death Of Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/theultimateburrito/gifts">theultimateburrito</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(I love that the fandom agrees that The Protagonist could also be referred to as "John" so that's what I went with.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He prefers not to go by a name. It's easier to work in the CIA's shadows this way. </p><p>They assign him with an identification number, just like everyone else, and drop him somewhere a location and a mission. </p><p>Nothing more, nothing less. </p><p>He's fine with it. It's not like his parents gave a damn about where or how he got recruited by the military. Why he ran away. Not that he remembers either. He doesn't even remember their faces, let alone what his own last name had legally been. That's not so important.</p><p>Priya Singh deemed him "The Protagonist" of this story they're playing a part of. Her half-smile crooked.</p><p>While in the Empresa's lobby, Neil affectionately calls him "John" and makes a show of holding his hand. Both of their ring fingers glint gold. <em>("What the hell is this, man?" John mutters behind the dumpster, staring incredulously at the item in his palm.)</em></p><p>
  <em>("Trust me," Neil says, rolling his eyes playfully. He slips an identical gold ring onto his own finger. "I know what I'm doing.")</em>
</p><p>The receptionist —  a white woman in mid-30s, pinkened in her cheeks by a touch too much blush, dead-eyed behind the friendly professionalism  —  remains smiling silently while Neil jokes about forgetting his vacation tickets to Prague on the cooker.</p><p>It's a role to play. It's keeping up the story and it's keeping it from getting examined too closely. </p><p>Neil is on a mission just as much as <em>John</em>.</p><p>(He does admit that this is much better than getting his teeth ripped out. To hell with those private Russian mercenaries.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Our plane won't be in Alibag until morning," Neil informs him, his voice calm and cool. He shuts the hotel room's door behind him with a tap of his dress shoe. John yanks off the café au lait suit-jacket. "Hiding out seems to be the best decision for now."</p><p>The room is unimpressive, small and square. Their bay window draped with a gray-patterned curtain. Sitting chairs, three of them, upholstered in white velvet and they're circled near a round and candlestick-looking table. One king-sized bed situated against a wall.</p><p>
  <em>One bed.</em>
</p><p>John didn't hear the receptionist mention the room they paid for only having available <em>one</em> <em>bed</em>.</p><p>He wonders if it's on purpose for a moment.</p><p>(Especially since Neil doesn't complain.)</p><p>Neil hunches down to the minibar, grabbing himself a slender bottle of island spiced rum. </p><p>"I'll have the Perrier," John announces.</p><p>He holds out a hand — and instead of the green can, John finds himself catching a Sun Drop. His brows furrow. "Go on," Neil encourages him. His mouth like a long crescent moon as Neil opens his lips. "Try it. After all, that one's a favourite."</p><p>John scoffs lightly, putting the can onto the table.</p><p>"I know what my favorite is," he insists. "But you seem to be operating on the assumption that you know me better than <em>me</em>." </p><p>Neil's smile widens.</p><p>"I don't know everything… however, the important things I may have committed to memory."</p><p>"Like what?"</p><p>"Things such as…" Neil trails off, rising to his feet. "You're allergic to bees. You graduated with an SAT score of 1380 while sick with the flu. Your favourite color is red. You prefer the 1740 Marquis de Sade cologne over Dior Homme or Armani Acqua di Gio. You acquired a rather unusual scar on your left forearm from a drawing pin. It wasn't self-inflicted, but more of a <em>prank</em> that had gone wrong."</p><p>John's eyes wander to Neil's hands methodically removing his cream-colored linen jacket.</p><p>"And you certainly don't like soda water," Neil adds cheekily. "Not for any reason."</p><p>John loosens his tie, smiling slowly and uncertainly. "I'm calling bullshit. I've never heard of a <em>Dior Homme</em>." he mumbles.</p><p>Neil glances down as if embarrassed, laughing. </p><p>He steps in. </p><p>The golden-glint of Neil's hair reminds John of the counterfeit wedding ring in his pocket. And the way that Neil looks at him, up close, exhaling into John's breathing space… John isn't sure if Neil wants to fight or <em>fuck</em>. But it really could go either way.</p><p>(Not that it is anyone's business but John prefers men. Always has. He keeps that tidbit to himself while working.)</p><p>"Aren't you hot like this?" Neil says quietly. There's a hint of barely concealed mischief in his voice.</p><p>John shakes his head. </p><p>"Think I'm good."</p><p>It feels like an icebox in their hotel room — but, jesus, Neil's fingertips trace him like pinpricks of heat. He carefully unbuttons John's shirt.</p><p>"I insist," Neil whispers.</p><p>Their eyes meet, and John realizes this is where he's requesting permission.</p><p>Neil requests permission for what John has been thinking about ever since Neil shut the goddamn door.</p><p>At the slightest chin-nod, Neil's face brightens.</p><p>He cups John's face, Neil's ring pressing icily to his dark brown skin. It's another heartbeat before John has lips on his. Two perfectly warm and soft lips that immediately heightens his pulse. John feels lightheaded, but good. Like this was his first kiss.</p><p>Neil presses his lips harder against him, their noses grinding. He sucks in air. </p><p>
  <em>"I always wanted to do this…"</em>
</p><p>John doesn't know what he's talking about, but it doesn't matter.</p><p>Neil's fingertips rake gently over the thickness of John's facial hair, one of his hands lowering to John's crotch. Neil palms him, breathing raggedly as if he's the one feeling this pleasure, opening his grinning mouth a little to sip against John's bottom lip.</p><p>"Fuck," John pants. "You're gonna be the death of me."</p><p>"Let's hope not," Neal replies in a solemn seriousness, working apart John's belt.</p><p>He backs John to a land on the mattress edge, murmuring to him and kneeling between John's legs to suck him off.</p><p>Neil's lips — <em>jesus christ</em> — stretch obscenely over his cocktip, wetting him, filling up the lining of Neil's throat. He tightens his walls on John, swallowing around him, and John feels himself reaching the limit of just how fucking hard he can get without passing out.</p><p>There's a stain of pink on Neil's cheeks. Blush-touch.</p><p>"Neil," John whispers, getting his attention, petting a hand into Neil's golden hair.</p><p>He urges Neil off his knees, getting him to crawl over John when John lies back on the mattress.</p><p>It's a lightning strike of vulnerability in Neil's eyes so suddenly. </p><p>John tries to kiss it away, soothe and stroke Neil, tugging open his pants. He's a firm, heavy warmth in the curl of John's fingers.</p><p>They press into each other, rutting and gasping in each other's mouths. John's white dress shirt, partly unbuttoned, rucks up to his abdomen. Their hands scramble for leverage. Neil's cock slides against his, twitching and oozing clear fluid. </p><p>John loses track of time.</p><p>He's caught in the awkward and thrilling rhythm with Neil crying out hoarsely, succumbing to a filthy-quick orgasm. </p><p>"Shit," John mumbles.</p><p>He watches in concern as Neil breathes raggedly, his eyes screwing shut.</p><p>"You okay, Neil?"</p><p>There's no answer but the sensation of the other man trembling undeniably. Neil's fingers comb deep into those gold-glint strands.</p><p><em>"M'sorry,"</em> Neil croaks, sniffling and grinning and wiping furiously under his nose. <em>"Ss'my fault… I mucked it all up…"</em></p><p>He still hasn't opened his eyes.</p><p>It's like Neil cannot look directly at him, as if John is his sun. </p><p>Neil buries his face entirely in John's chest, giving a shudder. Despite having no idea what's wrong, John embraces an arm around Neil and rubs his shoulder. He doesn't think Neil would willingly explain even if Neil himself knew. He seems to be that kind of person.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When he's sure that Neil has dozed off, John rolls him sideways, standing up.</p><p>He winces down at the mess left on him. </p><p>A hotel washcloth does the trick. And another towel or two. John rinses himself with scalding hot water, wringing the hotel washcloth dry and leaving it on a metal bar-hanger. His dress shirt crumpled up into a ball, abandoned on the toilet-seat.</p><p>John creeps out of the bathroom, trying to not wake a softly snoring Neil.</p><p>He doesn't throw on a new shirt, pulling off the rest of his clothes and finding some boxers. John adjusts Neil the rest of the way onto the bed.</p><p>
  <em>The only bed.</em>
</p><p>He's too tired to be polite now.</p><p>Thinking it over, John decides to sleep. He lies down with his back facing the wall and Neil's back. John's hand positions near the hotel pillow, easily accessing his gun underneath. John faces himself towards both entrances, unconsciously shielding Neil.</p><p>They're not playing a role with each other like this — <em>The Protagonist and His Lover</em> — but regardless, this is their story.</p><p>It has to be a happy ending.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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